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Sunday, 14 June 2009

In the midst of teenage, pre-results exam anxiety, I used to have a recurring dream about going to collect my grades. I’d get up at quarter to sparrow-fart on results day, pass up on breakfast thanks to being too nervous, fail to wait for the mate who was calling for me on the way to school and instead hurriedly head there myself, early and apprehensive, where I’d lean against the huge, locked wooden double doors in order to be the first one through when the headmaster opened them. But whenever I did get inside, one of three things would happen. I’d either wait at the front of the queue as the headmaster rifled through envelopes only to reveal that my results were missing; he’d open the doors and announce to the crowd of tetchy teens (and the cool, do-I-look-bovvered kids smoking at the back) that the exam board were late in sending our grades through; or I’d be handed my envelope, take myself off to a quiet corner to open it and discover that it was empty. I never dreamt about getting bad grades – only ever about having to wait longer for them.

It doesn’t take a straight-A rocket scientist, then, to deduce that, in my world, waiting for your fate is far worse than getting it – however crappy it may be. ‘Well, no news is good news,’ people will say. ‘No it sodding isn’t,’ I’ll think. Those people are crazy. No news is a damn chuffing sight worse than bad news. Because at least with bad news you can react to it, be practical, just do something – whether it’s making plans or smashing windows – in response. But in the meantime, what the bleeding hell are you supposed to do but fret and flap and clog up London’s sewerage system with your worries?

‘Oh, just be calm,’ said the technician as I zipped up my dress after last week’s mammogram. ‘Try to relax.’ I turned green, bursting out of the seams of my frock. ‘Relax?’ I roared. ‘RELAX?!’ (I fear I became Brian Blessed for a moment.) ‘How can I possibly relax? The last time I had one of these things,’ I said, disdainfully gesturing to the machine that had just squashed my right breast like a stress ball, ‘…it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, and I ended up with BREAST CANCER. I’m assuming it says that on your clipboard there?’ I think she actually found my reaction funny, and sneaked out a little half-grin, demonstrably not believing that I was every bit as serious as the illness I’d been diagnosed with.

My last mammogram was done at Smiley Surgeon’s clinic, mere minutes before my diagnosis. I hadn’t even realised I’d be having one that day – as far as I was concerned, I was just going to the hospital to get the results of a ‘routine biopsy’ on my ‘cyst’. And, given that I’d paid for that consultation in order to have it eight weeks sooner than I would have done on the NHS, it could all be done – the test, the results, the lot – in one day. By the time I’d re-dressed after my mammogram, the x-ray scans were already being printed out. And so, with this as my only melon-squeezing experience, I was optimistic that I’d know again this time – despite being in a different hospital – whether anything was awry on the day of my mammogram.

‘I’ll level with you,’ I said to the technician as I unhooked my bra before she set the machine working. ‘I’m really bloody frightened about this.’ She half-grinned, in what was clearly her default reaction to everything. ‘And so I really want you to tell me if you see anything untoward,’ I pleaded. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘I can’t say anything; I’m not allowed. You have to wait to hear from the doctors.’ Tears fell from my eyes onto the edge of the machine before me. ‘And how long is that going to be?’ I whimpered. ‘I’d say two to three weeks. They’ll write to you. Or call. Sometimes they call.’ I’m assuming ‘sometimes’ translates to ‘if there’s a problem’.

I continued to cry as the machine did its thing, both from the pain of my flattened bust, and the pain of a protracted wait for my results. ‘Okay, good,’ said the technician as the whirring eventually ground to a halt. My head spun round in her direction. Was that ‘good’ as in there’s nothing showing up, or good as in we’re done? I daren’t ask, for fear of the same I’m-not-telling-you reaction, and fear that my increasingly wounded-child-spliced-with-the-Incredible-Hulk demeanour would have seen me grab hold of her head and ram it between the same metal plates that had just turned my right tit to mincemeat.

And so now, we wait.

Again.

A-fucking-gain.

I’m holding it together as best I can, keeping as busy as my tiredness allows, and pretending I can ignore every sound from my phone or rattle of the letterbox. I’m trying to change any subject that relates to The Bullshit, push all negative thought to the back of my mind and work through all the anxiety-calming Q&A tactics Mr Marbles taught me to use whenever my worries find a way of surfacing. (Is this a rational thought? Do I have any reason to believe it’s true? Can I back it up?) The trouble with that, though, is that my mind sometimes likes to play smartarse and think it’s too clever for that kind of therapy malarkey. ‘Well, yes actually,’ it’ll say, sarcastically. ‘That worry is rational and, yes, you do have reason to believe it and, yes, you can even back it up – hell, the last time you assumed your boobs were cancer-free, it came back to bite you on the ass good and proper, so screw Marbles and his calming tactics and keep tucking into those biscuits.’

But rational thought, of course, isn’t necessarily about making yourself feel better. Because, ultimately, you’ve got to deal in fact. And so people can say ‘you’ll be okay’ and ‘there won’t be a problem’ and ‘I just know it’ll be fine’ as much as they want, but do they really know that everything’s going to be okay? Can they really feel it in their water? Of course not. No more than I can or the doctors can or The Piss-Taking God Of Cancer Fuck-Ups can. And so much of my focus at the moment is going into nodding politely whenever somebody does say something like that, and biting my lip to stop myself launching into a monologue about how I have to be open to receiving bad news, how I’m trying to prepare myself for the worst and how I’d hate to say I told you so if I got the kind of diagnosis that would satisfy nothing but my fondness for symmetry.

The shit truth here is that there’s not a single sodding thing I can do about those unknown results either way. If there’s cancer in my right boob (having had everything scooped out of the left, there was no reason to scan that side), then I’m just going to have to scream a few expletives, accept it, hitch up my skirt and wade through the swamp of whatever treatment they can give me for a second time. And if there isn’t any sign of further Bullshit – and if I can somehow pester the arse off the mammography department into letting me know my results within the next 10 days – then it’s going to be one hell of a Glastonbury. But whatever those results do say, there’s one grade I can count on in the meantime, and that’s an A+ in worrying. And as for my grades in being calm/relaxed? I’d say F/U was pretty appropriate, wouldn’t you?

6 comments:

Given his evident esteem for your good self, one would assume Smiley Surgeon is cognizant of your more-than-understandable angst in this matter, and hence mightn't he see his way fit toward giving you your results a tad bit sooner? Because all of this worrying isn't going to do a damn thing for your overall well-being, after all (as I'm a firm believer in the mental affecting the physical, and jeezy creezy, it's not like you haven't had enough to deal with already).

The American comedienne Cathy Ladman had a routine about her first mammogram, and though I can't remember the wording exactly, it went something like, "So they clamped my boob into this mediaeval torture device...AND THEN THEY TOOK IT INTO THE OTHER ROOM!"

And hoohlordy, do I ever hear ya on the exams-results dream; my version (which reoccurs on a semi-monthly basis) involves how it's the last day of school and I've missed the bus home; this stems from how on the final day of my senior year, this actually occurred, and yikes, nothing like having to walk three miles home in a damp bathing suit and little gold flats (they were au courant then, honest) that were constructed far more for purposes of fashion than any sort of extended hiking endeavour.

Anybody who tells you to relax needs to STFU already, though, cos until they've walked three miles in those little gold flats of yours, they don't know what the fuck they're saying. SRSLY.

You have every right to worry and don't let anyone make you feel otherwise. I am absolutely dreadful at waiting for anything, let alone the results you're waiting for.

I'm crossing my fingers that you get the results you (and everybody else) wants and that you get to enjoy Glastonbury worry free. I for one intend to drink my body weight in cider and eat pies till I fall over. Bring it on xx

Yep, I sympathise too, I hate waiting for news of any kind. Just about the worst thing anyone can say to me is "Oh, I've got something to tell you, but I'll leave it until I see you next week". AAAAGGGHHH!!!

Anyway, I hope you get the result you want and I hope you get it quick. Fingers crossed for you.

I'm shit at waiting too (although of course have never had to wait for something like this) in fact I can't even bear to be told "in a minute" - erm, you might have actually worked that out for yourself seeing how long you've known me.

Glasto is going to be amazing - the sun will shine, we will drink pear cider and wear stupid sunglasses (Matt will break his within hours) and the only thing we'll be waiting on will be whether Pete and Carl will play together.

I love you and I've got everything crossed which makes it very difficult to type and walk but ya know, anything for you.

Brian Blessed - pure stroke of genius. Typical that you would find the best, weirdest person to reference. He seriously does roar. While you are dealing with this interminable wait, just remember to channel the sister-in-law. Also the amount you worry will not affect the outcome (just going to say it and really annoy you but we will be living it up worry-free in LA very soon) so you might as well drown our the fear with a few bottles of cava and do whatever else it takes to just distract you (although you are pretty indistractable I feel. I have this idea that endless DVD watching is fairly soothing, particularly really shit romantic comedies. Love you xxxxxxxxx

There was nothing like the feeling of waking up from my mastectomy and feeling I was alive and going to be ok for the first time in six months. I thought nothing could be that scary again.

And then a few months later I had the first post treatment mammogram and had a little flashback to my day of diagnosis and that feeling of sheer terror. This time though it was backed up with what acutally did happen rather than what might happen.

I recognise your anxiety, I have felt it myself. But Glastonbury, dear Glastonbury the music, mud and the green fields, you can look forward to it and love every moment of it.

You are pure inspiration to me (even though I know only too well what you are feeling) I just can't articulate it the way you do. Whatever happens you will get through it, and you will have Glastonbury.

Eh up

Welcome to the website of me, Lisa Lynch: author, editor, blogger, wife, Ram, telly-addict, doofus, cancer bitch (but not, I hasten to add, cancer's bitch). The latter of those things is what initially got me blogging, swearing my way through The Bullshit following a pesky breast-cancer diagnosis at 28. Some three years down the line – with newly grown hair, a newly published book and a newly perky rack – I dared to assume that I'd seen the worst… only for the c-word to crop up once more: this time in my bones and brain, and this time incurable.

And so, from being a blog intended to chart my evolution from 'the girl who has cancer' to merely 'the girl', it seems we're back to the former. (If, indeed, it's still acceptable to even call yourself a girl in your thirties. Which, let's be honest, it probably isn't.) But before you write this off as Just Another Moany Health Blog, stick with me. Because cancer or no cancer, curable or incurable… I'll still tell it the way I see it. The universe might be in control of what’s going on in my body, but I'm in control of what’s going on in my blog. Which is why I hope you'll continue to join me as I write my way through my experiences. You see, this isn't a story about some poor, unlucky lass being taken down by cancer; it's simply a story about the extraordinary life of an ordinary girl woman.

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